But She Cannot Speak
by LobosNumber5
Summary: He speaks, but she does not respond. There is a sort of sad fascination in watching someone repeat the same thing over and over, though they know that nothing will come of their dedication. Match, an undead long having abandoned his duty—who was perhaps given an unfortunate hand from the very start—carries pointless conversations with the caged woman underneath Firelink Shrine.


But She Cannot Speak

"_You sicken me, wretch." The man struck a blow across the woman's cheek, knocking her to the ground. The dust that caked her wounds stood a testament to how many times this altercation had played out. A whimper escaped the woman, but before she could retort she was struck again. _

"_How many times has it been now? Do you know? Have you been counting my blows, you blasphemous whore? You've the nerve to continually defy me with that foul tongue of yours?" A thick arm, swathed in black, reached to grab the woman's shoulder. She was propped up against a wall of stone before being knocked to the ground once again. _

"_That's fine, really_—_I've had about enough of this." The blade of a knife dressed in blood long dried pressed against the corners of the woman's lips, and for a moment her eyes bore right into those of her aggressor. It was clear he had flinched at the gaze, but the slow trickle of blood that escaped her cheek betrayed his intentions nonetheless._

"_You won't speak another word, blaspheme or not, and I'll make sure of that."_

—

How many days had it been?

Match's clouded eyes unfocused, darting from the motionless figure clothed in darkness before him and his own spindly fingers, emaciated not by malnutrition, but by undeath.

What was he doing? Counting the days? The days on his fingers?

Counting them (the days, not his fingers) would have been a fool's errand, really—time's inconvenient distortion saw to it that any sort of timekeeping activities or related bore no fruit. He'd heard countless times from the chain-clad warrior resting atop a log way above of Lordran's peculiar time predicament, but it didn't keep Match from counting on his fingers or observing shadows and waiting for movement, among other things.

"Well, I suppose that about does it for today. Or tonight? Hell, I could call it either and you'd be a fool to correct me." Match glanced in-between the barricade of steel bars binding the unwilling recipient of his ramblings and into the darkness that held the very woman. Her clothes were a mess, her hair unkempt, and her eyes stuck to the ground just as surely as his feet did. She'd heard him, of course—she wasn't deaf—but offer little response she did to his quip, or any other quip he'd quipped since he began his pointless one-person-conversation all those days—weeks, months, ages, centuries ago. The man's leather-bound knuckles rapped on the bars twice, eliciting a shrill rattle.

No response.

Match got to his feet and began his ascent up the mossy stone steps that led to his usual perch beside the bonfire. The very time that he could hardly keep tabs on had been gently gnawing at his bones, flesh, and tendons, and he could feel every bit of it as he stumbled across the uneven patches of grass and grime that characterized the forlorn Firelink Shrine as well as ever. He considered feigning a wince, but he knew that there would be no smiling face to greet his poor humor—instead, he was met with a sneer and a clap.

"Nice work, really now… At this rate, you might be able to get her lips to curl in disgust when your heavy sod footsteps smash against the stepstones for the thousandth time."

Match disregarded the aggressor and saw to it that his seat was cleared—he'd made it to the bonfire in no time, dusting off the spot where no grass grew that he'd claimed when he first arrived via crow from the asylum. If he were told his arrival had taken place sometime last week, he would be inclined to believe them.

The chainmail warrior affixed the thief with a scowl. "Sorry, didn't realize they'd cut _your_ tongue out as well."

"Hm? Did you say something? Seems my ears aren't quite what they used to be." Match cupped a hand around his ear in the direction of the warrior, but it seemed as though his joke was lost on the man.

"You'll drive yourself bloody mad if you keep this up—you may even drive _me_ mad, and that's quite the accomplishment as you'll find I'm less sane than a bat."

Match glanced back at the man. "I'd be surprised if I could get any less sane, myself." The warrior looked as though he wanted to respond, but the thief heard no more from his direction. Satisfied, Match gingerly rubbed his hands together as the warmth of the blaze bathed his entire body, sweetly caressing his aches and pains away into the abyss. A crick in his back loosened, and it felt as though a shred of sanity had returned to his mind, though when he realized that most of the magical healing properties of the bonfire were observed only by his weary brain the pleasantness subsided.

—

Trapped.

Death.

A pair of dull irises blinked into the foggy darkness. The undead flexed his muscles, as though he had just grown a functioning pair of limbs a few seconds ago. He couldn't remember anything, and the present circumstances gave way to a growing fear in his heart.

He was in a cell—that much was certain. Though in an inconvenient state, the undead stood as quickly as he could, peeling his fingers off of the object he'd had in a vice since likely before he was imprisoned. Before he could think, he'd tossed the object through the cell's bars and across the hall, where it met with stone and spewed sparks that lapped at the floor. The undead cursed his foolishness, quickly scanning his immediate surroundings for any means of escape. He considered calling out, but a hand to his throat quickly revealed that he was in no condition to speak—it felt as though his very vocal cords had rotted to dust long ago. It was a miracle he was able to kneel and search the floor without incident, but by far the greater surprise was the presence of a silver key below his bedroll. It rolled easily in his hands, and though he'd no clue if it would unlock his freedom, the key met with the keyhole on the outside of his cage, and a swift kick snapped the door from its hinges, something he wished he'd thought of moments earlier.

He was free. The man wandered the decrepit halls of his personal hell. There were others like him, yes—decaying bodies that writhed and screamed against unfeeling stone walls that lent to the claustrophobia that tickled his spine as he walked. Twice! Twice he'd tripped over himself, righting his body only by propping himself against the hall or on his knee, but a motivation unknown spurred him forward. An exit lay before him, or so he thought, and he briskly made it into the searing daylight and through the mazelike interior of the prison—or was it a prison? The distance from this truth was too great for the undead to bear, and thus he began his unsteady footfalls again. This time, he nearly tripped over an overturned sword that had been stuck straight into the ground, sprinkled with crushed bone and skulls. Morbid, he observed, but not fascinating enough to stunt his quest for freedom.

Passing through foreboding double-doors that had likely taken a great strength to pry open, the undead trekked onward to a cliff overlooking nothing. A peculiar looking bird sat perched beside him, preening itself in the filtered rays of daylight that sprung forth from no sun. Though he regarded the great beast with caution, the massive avian affixed him with a peculiar gaze and stretched its wings wide, engulfing the man in a leathery shadow, and before he knew it the bird's claws had grasped his arms and he was flying through the air, the shock of which knocking him out cold.

—

Match blinked away the sleepiness of his unexpected nap and pulled the cloth of his mask down, expelling the contents of his throat with a few violent hacks. It wasn't uncommon to see bits of tissue or what he assumed were the maggot-bitten remains of organs, but today was just dust. Perhaps he'd little left of his living body to cough up?

It didn't matter. He glanced around the shrine, but things were the exact same as they were before: the chainmail warrior sat atop his log, brooding and muttering about this and that; the crow (or perhaps raven), who perched atop the high beams of the shrine's remnants, preening its glossy feathers incessantly; and the bonfire, the flames of which gently soothed his bones and tempted to lull him back into another nap.

Reluctantly, Match got to his feet. The chainmail warrior eyed him suspiciously—though Match made no attempt to hide his intentions.

"It's about that time again, I suppose. Oh, we'll chat about this and that, perhaps I might even regale her with stories of my childhood—though I couldn't be bothered to differentiate between what I remember clearly and the bits I've filled in with my own ceaseless imagination. Yes, don't wait up now. I'll be back shortly." To no-one in particular he spoke, and with a wave to the still air of the shrine Match trod back to the dilapidated staircase that led to his silent mistress below.


End file.
